


Just a Growing Pain

by summers_honey_breath



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Adventure & Romance, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bisexual Female Character, Casual Sex, Dialogue Heavy, Drug Abuse, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Grief/Mourning, I love romance tropes, Slow Burn, Smut, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-11-12 22:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18019697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summers_honey_breath/pseuds/summers_honey_breath
Summary: Heath, Lone Wanderer and recently appointed Vault physician, is grieving and thoroughly restless.  When Overseer Amata Almodovar suggests going back out into the Wastes, Heath accepts, despite the added caveat that she must take her childhood bully with her.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Questions, comments, concerns, and airing of grievances are most welcome.

In the Wasteland she was Catherine, to those deigned to ask. It couldn’t be a lie since no one out there knew the truth. “Beautiful, intelligent, confident…just like her mother,” her father had said.  
Perhaps.  
Heath studied the photograph at her bedside. A young woman. Sloe-eyed, with a lush, sulky mouth, low cheekbones, and a complexion so dewy it beggared belief. The same features a mirror would throw back at her. The same features that had seen her father’s face limned in shadow, not least when they’d worked together in the lab. So she was Catherine, in more ways than one. But not truly.  
Now, in the ruined metal labyrinth of Vault 101, she was Heath again—a girl, not an abstract. A girl without a mother, without a father, too.  
Footsteps sounded at the door. Amata Almodovar strode into the room, a clean, if slightly worn, Vault suit draped over her arm. “Hello, Heath,” she said.  
“‘Allo, Amata,” Heath replied, echoing the childhood greeting. “I mean, Overseer.”  
Her best friend affected a scowl. “Call me that again and I’ll reconsider giving you this welcome-home present.”  
“You _should_ reconsider. It’s my fault everything went to shit.” Prompted by her father’s departure, at any rate. Then they’d both stomped around the Wasteland, essentially publicizing the existence of Vault 101, pre-war impeccable and ripe for the taking.  
The completion of Project Purity had come at a high cost—too high a cost, Heath often thought. Perhaps that was selfish. Yet how could one think only of the greater good, when it left so much destruction in its wake? Clean water for the many, death and despair for the few. Philosophically—logically—all was sound. That was the worst part.  
Amata’s soft, clear voice pulled her from her ruminations. “You had to leave. You’d have been killed otherwise. And as for fault, you can’t lay all the blame on yourself. You’re not singlehandedly responsible for what happened out there, or in here, nor was your dad. He would hate to see you like this, and you won’t do anyone any favors by moping around. Least of all yourself. Try to remember the good you’ve done, the people you’ve helped, what you can do going forward. You know it doesn’t end here and…a whole string of other cliches.”  
Though her cheeks were wet, Heath smiled. Amata was the most honest person she knew—one who didn’t sugarcoat and didn’t coddle. “Thanks for the uplifting monologue. Hey, I mean it! I just need to figure some things out.”  
“Then go back out there, if that’s what you need. You’re not trapped in here anymore. Besides, I could use an emissary of sorts to assist with reconstruction efforts.”  
Heath turned up the collar of her lab coat. “What, you don’t need your new physician? Who’s going to treat all the tens of people under your command, O venerable Overseer?”  
“We’ll manage well enough,” said Amata. “And if any medical emergencies arise, there’s Doc Church in Megaton. So, how about it?”  
“Why not? It’s been a bit. I could use the fresh, irradiated air and constant danger.”  
“Good. What we really need is to establish supply lines. Think you can handle that?”  
“Consider it done.”  
“Oh, and one more thing…”  
“Yeah?”  
“I need you to take Butch with you.”  
“Excuse me?”  
Before the night of her escape, her last encounter with Butch DeLoria had culminated very animated hate-sex. Such had things been for the past two years when mutual childish animosity had turned into something else: mutual adult animosity. Amata had often scolded her for it, deemed it just as immature, and unhealthy withal. Strange, then, that she should ask Heath to bring him with her.  
But Heath could deny her friend little. “Alright, tell me why,” she amended.  
“He’s itching to get out but we both know he’s too much of a coward to leave on his own. And if he did, I’m pretty sure he’d immediately get himself killed. Look, Butch is a major dickhead, but we take care of our own, don’t we? I know you won’t do it for him—God knows you’d never do anything for him—but will you do it for me? Too many people have died down here, Heath. We can’t lose any more to the world above. We just can’t.”  
Amata’s soulful puppy-eyes gave Dogmeat a run for his money. Heath raised her hands in surrender. “So I’ll babysit the jerk. For _you_ , not for him. And don’t give me that look, as if _I_ have anything to gain from this.”  
“You’ve always said he was a good lay…”  
“A good lay, not good company. There’s a difference. We’re not gonna fuck our way across the Wastes.”  
“You don’t have to do this.”  
“No, but I should.” Then, to show that she wasn’t angry, Heath gave her friend a peck on the cheek and quit the room.  
She wandered the dim, derelict halls aimlessly—a walk for clearing the mind, not working the body. Eventually, she wound up in the atrium where, as luck would have it, Butch was loitering, sharing a pack of smokes with Freddie Gomez. The latter gave her a genuine smile. Heath ignored him.  
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little nerd,” said Butch.  
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little candy ass,” she said, plucking the cigarette from his lips. She took a drag, exhaled and studied at him through the cloud of white. “I have it on good authority that you want out of this place. Well, you’re in luck. I’m heading out soon.”  
He snorted. “What makes you think I’d wanna go with you?”  
“For one thing, I’ll keep you from death’s door. You’ve never used a gun in your life and that little toothpick of a switchblade won’t do jack shit the Wasteland. For another, I’ll be there to patch you up when you inevitably get yourself injured. The pros outweigh the cons. At least for you.”  
Butch jabbed a thumb over his shoulder, and Freddie sauntered away. “C’mon, nerd, lay off in front of the boys,” he said, taking Heath’s arm to draw her near. He was so much taller than she was, to say nothing of stronger. But she was smaller and quicker and slipped from his hold with nary a struggle.  
“You could at least try to be nice.”  
“Alright. Lay off, hot stuff.” Butch leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, looking so uncharacteristically serious that she barked out a laugh.  
“I’ve always given as good as I’ve got,” she said. “What’s the matter? Can’t deal with a little friendly emasculation?”  
“Emascu-what now?”  
“Nevermind. Stop pouting.”  
“Give me back my cigarette.”  
“Give me back my cigarette…?”  
“C’mon, just give it to me.”  
Heath took a long, purposeful drag and hacked out another cloud. “Alright,” she said hoarsely, lifting the white cylinder his mouth, fingers brushing his lower lip before she dropped it. With Butch, she was equal parts juvenile and coquette. Oh, but it was a low road she took; she wasn’t even a smoker, which also meant that she picked the damn thing up and disposed of it properly.  
“What’s your damage, nosebleed? What’d I ever do to you?”  
She wouldn’t dignify that with a response. “Hey, I’ve done some good things,” he said and chucked her under the chin. “Some _very_ good things, if I recall.”  
Loathe as she was to admit it, he wasn’t wrong. But that wasn’t why she’d chosen to speak with him, even if his broad shoulders and pretty face were so very appealing. “Listen, I’m not exactly crazy about the prospect of spending so much time with you,” she said. “But I could still use somebody to watch my back.”  
“Already got that covered.”  
She swatted his bicep. “Meet me down in the reactor room tonight. No, not for sex, asshat! I’m going to teach you how to shoot. Whether you come with me or not, it’s a skill you need to learn.”

The BB gun was heavy in her hands, heavy with the weight of memory, of years of happiness and comfort and the overwhelming sorrow that remained. She mourned her father like the loss of a limb. She hated him for leaving her. She hated herself for letting him.  
Heath reached into the pocket of her lab coat, extracting a tin of Orange Mentats. The pills tasted of caustic, chalky citrus, but the effects were immediate. Her body lurched into alertness, her brain wired, eyes sharp and swift. It was all too easy to fall back on chems.  
“That you, nerd?” called Butch. “Damn, you’re kinda twitchy. What gives?”  
Heath slipped the tin back into her pocket. “Jesus, Butch. Don’t sneak up on me like that. And I’m not twitchy. You just scared me, is all.”  
“Scared you, my ass. You heard me come in.”  
Heath tossed him the BB gun and a box of rounds. Surprisingly, he caught both. “Let’s get down to business, shall we? Load it up and see if you can hit those targets.”  
“What do I get if I do?”  
“A gold fucking star.”  
The pellets grazed the edge of all three. “Not bad, but don’t flinch when you fire. Take it slow and use the sights. Hey, watch it! You’ll shoot your eye out. Or mine.” She came up behind him and adjusted his form, showed him where to set the pad of his finger on the trigger. “Okay, try again. Shoot.”  
“If you wanna get closer to me, that’s all you gotta say, girl.”  
“Keep it in your pants, Tunnel Snake.”  
“I’ll keep my Tunnel Snake—”  
“Good God, are you trying my patience. Here’s the deal: I’m tired, I’ve got a bottle of scotch with my name on it, so hit the targets and we can pick up again tomorrow night.”  
He turned to her at the mention of liquor. “Why don’t you show me how I should shoot? You sure seem to know your way around a gun.”  
Heath promptly hit all three bullseyes and thrust the BB gun back into his hands. “Your turn.”  
Lips wetted, Butch gave her the old up-down. “I really oughta watch it around you, huh? The little nerd’s all grown up. Damn.”  
“I’ve always known how to shoot, candy ass. You’re just lucky I never stooped to fight you when we were little.”  
Another quarter of an hour and he finally managed to strike the outer rings of the targets. Heath abandoned him to the bowels of the earth with a sardonic salute, BB gun slung over her shoulder, not caring whether he followed.  
Instead of her room she made for the clinic, whereupon she immediately burst into tears.

Her father's last bottle of scotch was over two-hundred years old: single-malt, a rich, honey-gold that shone in the light, went hot and butter-smooth down the throat. Heath, a casual drinker, had downed more than half the bottle by the time the clinic door wheezed open. The overwhelming stench of pomade and aftershave left no doubt as to who had arrived.  
“Smells like a distillery in here,” said Butch.  
“You don’t even _know_ what a distillery smells like,” said Heath, pushing off from the ground, albeit unsteadily. Skeins of hair were tangled in her lashes and plastered to her chapped, scotch-sticky mouth.  
“You look like hell.”  
“Feel like it. Drink? Kill it, if you want.”  
“Uh, sure. Yeah.”  
Relieved of the bottle, she returned to the sterilized floor.  
“Your face is real red, nosebleed. You sick or somethin’?”  
“Nah, just Asian flush,” she said, with a languid stretch. “Didn’t want to waste the antihistamines on getting piss drunk alone. Stop looking at me like that. It’s caused by an acetaldehyde dehydrogenase deficiency. Perfectly normal. Gloria Mack gets it too.”  
“You’re a real know-it-all, you know that?”  
“Since I’m a know-it-all, yeah, I guess I do. But you ought to remember who raised me. Speaking of who raised me, give that back.” She wriggled her fingers toward the bottle. “I forgot, you probably shouldn’t be drinking. I’m not very good at my job, am I?” Ellen DeLoria was an alcoholic; Heath had known this for most of her life, yet only now had Ellen and her son become a professional concern.  
Butch took a swig and scowled. “Leave my mom outta this. We don’t talk about my mom. Got it?”  
She rose, swiped the scotch from his grip. “We’re not talking about her. We’re talking about you. You’re my patient; it’s my job to monitor your health and look out for you. Same goes for everyone else.”  
“And what about those empty bottles in the corner over there? Don’t tell me your dad left 'em behind.”  
“Oh, but _we_ don’t talk about him.” She paused to knock back the dregs. “He may not be around anymore, but we do not talk about him. Also, if you recall, I _saved_ your mom while everyone else here was trying to kill me. Far be it from me to speak ill of her.”  
For once he backed down, even had the grace to look somewhat contrite. “Alright, alright. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it. I mean, I said I was sorry about your dad, didn’t I? Still am. But, ah, shouldn’t you…drink some water, hop into bed? Not that I care, but you really don’t look good.”  
“Bring him up again and I’ll personally lead you to the nearest Raider camp. You got that?”  
“Easy, now. I got the message.”  
Heath set the empty bottle on her desk. “Goddammit,” she said, massaging her temples. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to blow up like that.”  
“Uh…”  
Heath realized that she’d never apologized to Butch before; she’d never had to. He was her childhood bully, after all, and she’d only ever responded to his taunts with tears and as much puerile sarcasm as she could muster. Conflict was their natural state of being, even if things had cooled down in recent years.  
Indeed, why _was_ she apologizing? Now would be the time to push him up against the wall, drag him to the floor or let him bend her over the desk. Now would be the time for Butch to look eager to do anything with—and to—her. She tugged experimentally on the zipper of her Vault suit. His eyes, hazy with drink, lingered on her cleavage. Then he shook his head as if to clear his thoughts. “You’re drunk off your ass, hot stuff. That ain’t my style, no matter how fine you are.”  
“That was almost a compliment. Almost.”  
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”  
Heath flopped onto a cot, yanked the zipper all the way down and undressed. Bra unhooked and shed, she slipped under the crisp sheets. Butch let out a strange, high-pitched noise. “You can go or take one of the cots,” she mumbled. “Doesn’t matter to me.”  
He left, of course, but not before turning her on her side.


	2. Chapter 2

Bach pounded in her ears; it may have been a flute sonata, but Heath could bear little more than the sound of her own breathing. “Water,” she croaked to the empty room, silencing the alarm. “Wa-ater?”  
Lo and behold, there it was—a bottle on the floor beside the cot. She drank it in three gulps. Verticality resulted in a swimming head, and the cold, filtered air and bright lights were much too harsh. Her skin was parched, her eyes crusty, her mouth filled with cotton. If she’d looked like hell last night, she was the living dead now.  
Heath groaned, as befit her devolved state, and glanced at the Pip-Boy on her wrist. Six in the morning. Rise and shine.  
An ice-cold shower woke her up, revitalized her. Heaps of Vault-issued creams, lotions and balms supplied her body with further hydration. Traipsing through the halls, double-fisting bottles of purified water, she felt almost human again.  
“What the hell happened to you?” said Amata, as Heath slipped into the Overseer’s office. “Can’t believe I ever thought you always looked good.”  
Heath raised her drinks in a mock toast. “Hear! Hear!”  
“Why don’t you sit? We don’t need you passing out on the floor.”  
Heath obliged. “Scotch,” she said, by way of explanation.  
Amata slid a box of Sugar Bombs across the desk. “Seems like you could use something to eat. Let’s talk.”  
“Mhm.”  
“So I take it you spoke with Butch, almost certainly drank with him? He’s in a similar state this morning.”  
“Did my best to teach him how to shoot.” Heath pantomimed cocking a gun. “Later on, he barged into the clinic while I was enjoying a drink. I was feeling generous.”  
“This isn’t like you. Are you sure you’re up to helping out? I know you’ve been through a lot. If it’s too much pressure…”  
“What? No, no, no, of course not! It was just one night, just blowing off steam. As soon as Butch is set up, we’ll leave, together or separately. I can’t force him to come with me, but I can teach him how to survive on his own. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really, I am.” The words tumbled out of her, sounded too desperate, almost pleading. “I mean, I’m not, but I’ll be fine eventually. At some point. It’s been a whirlwind.”  
The Overseer’s delicate, heart-shaped face softened. “You know I love you, Heath. If there’s anything I can do, name it, but you need to make an actual attempt to get your shit together. Lay off the chems and drinking before they become a problem. You can’t let yourself fall apart, okay? We need you with us.”  
“I will, I promise. I’ll be fine. But that’s enough about me. How are _you_ doing?”  
“Busy as hell. Somehow my father manages to be even more overbearing, despite the fact that he stepped down as Overseer.”  
“Need me to rough him up a bit?”  
“Not yet,” said Amata, chuckling. “I know he means well, and it’s not as if he can overrule any of my decisions. Still, I’m not sure that I’m cut out for all this.”  
“We’re both cleaning up the respective messes our fathers made. Who could do it better than we?”  
For life had seen fit to furnish them with similar circumstances: mothers who died giving birth, fathers who meant well yet failed to realize their actions did not exist in a vacuum. Heath and Amata were not only the best of friends but perhaps the only people in the world who could truly understand each other.  
Amata sighed and cracked her knuckles. “Let’s hope you’re right, for everyone’s sake. I have a lot to do now, though. Some residual infighting that needs resolving. Talk later?”  
“Just holler if you need me.”

Back in her room, Heath sorted through her weapons and gear. As she oiled and polished the various parts of her armored Vault suit, a gleam of black snagged her eye. She tugged the leather jacket from the dresser, flipped it around to view the decal on the back—a writhing green snake, poised to strike. A garish thing.  
She wore the jacket in the Wastes. And why not? It was large and comfortable and kept her warm on cold nights. Charon had teased her about it, asked whose “gal” she was—quite out of character. Heath smiled at the thought and made a note to introduce the ghoul to her sometime lover, should the opportunity arise. Charon would hate him. So would Fawkes, for that matter.  
She began to sweat taking apart and feverishly cleaning her guns, and soon changed into one of her father’s old T-shirts; it still smelled of him, yet for once she didn’t cry. The work itself was strangely cathartic.  
When she returned to the clinic, lab coat freshly pressed and pristine, buttoned up over the memento, Butch arrived in his usual fashion—unannounced and unwanted. “Have you been following me or do you actually need treatment?” she asked.  
“I’ve got a helluva headache, Doc,” he said and hopped onto the examination table.  
“I’m not actually a licensed doctor. You look just fine to me.”  
“Thanks, you’re pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”  
“Huh. You’re not usually this relentless.” Heath tapped her foot, arms akimbo. “Been a while since you got laid? Wait, wait, don’t tell me. I think I already know. Susie Mack blushes every time you walk by. Am I wrong?”  
“Are you jealous?”  
Heath handed him some water and two ibuprofen. “Hardly. I’ve, ah—how would _you_ eloquently put it?—‘boinked’ her too. Shocking, I know. I always thought she hated me.”  
“Uh…”  
“Close your mouth or you’ll start catching bloatflies. Anything else you need? A whack on the head, for instance?”  
“Maybe I’ll just, uh, lay down for a bit? Feelin’ kinda lightheaded.”  
“You do that.”  
He was quiet, at least, and she was able to do a full inventory of medical supplies. In wake of the recent rebellion, they were low on Med-X and Stimpaks, but trading with Doc Church and other Wasteland physicians would soon remedy that. Only two other Vault residents came in that day. Christine Kendall, with a nasty burn—the origins of which she refused to reveal—and sweet, snowy-haired Lucy Palmer, looking for a refill on her arthritis medication.  
Heath opted for handwritten reports; she had yet to boot up her father’s old terminal.  
Lacking anything more to do, she grew restless and ached for a hit of Jet—anything to numb her mind and body, in truth. But she’d promised to do better; so she locked the inhaler away, together with a few bottles of wine, and went to check Butch’s vitals. “Don’t you have a job to do, someone’s hair to cut?” she asked and nudged him conscious. He offered a lazy smile.  
“I don’t know, Doc…I think I’m pretty sick,” he said.  
“I’m not about to play into whatever dirty fantasies you’re conjuring up, you adolescent dork.” She cuffed him on the shoulder. “Let’s go back to you calling me ‘nerd’ and ‘nosebleed.’ Or Little League MVP.”  
“I never called you that.”  
“No, but you should. It’s been my rightful title since we were twelve.”  
Heath wasn’t much for blue eyes, yet she had to concede that Butch’s were especially lovely when he smiled—shameless and bright, crinkled at the corners. A cluster of soft brown curls, mussed from sleep, tumbled onto his brow; his pompadour had lost its structural integrity, but the disheveled look suited him. “What are you lookin’ at?” he said. “Somethin’ wrong with my hair, my face?”  
“Nothing more than usual. I’m afraid it’s not something medicine can fix, but there are support groups you can join. Interested?”  
Any interest he held was not reserved for her bad joke. In fact, it seemed nothing verbal would rouse him. Heath’s smooth, light gold cheeks burned and bloomed red.  
A large hand gripped her jaw, thumb grazing her lower lip. “And what if I am?”  
That touch—gentle, almost affectionate—made her quake. Since her father’s passing, she’d eschewed most forms of intimacy, closed herself off from much of the world. Last night’s display had been an impulse, borne of drink. Yet here was the release she craved; if it wasn’t to be chems or scotch, perhaps it would be this.  
How strange it was, to want without the fuel of ire.  
Heath pulled away, however, and cast about for the right words. “I…um, I need to, uh, find Officer Armstrong and…check his, well, _you_ _know_. Men of a certain age and all that. Not exactly ideal for me but I’m sure you’d rather not be here for any potential unpleasantness.”  
Not the most elegant response, but it basically did the trick. “Good lookin’ out, nosebleed,” said Butch, cackling.  
“Reactor room later!” she called to his retreating form. “Don’t forget!”


	3. Chapter 3

After a week, Heath couldn’t countenance another day underground. Butch had made enough progress to boost his ego and ensure his survival, and the days passed without any pressing medical matters. Thus, on a morning of indeterminable weather, she paid a visit to the Vault salon in hopes of conversation. Her quarry was cutting Tom Holden’s hair.  
“Oh,” said Tom, high in color. As with Ellen DeLoria, she had aided him and his wife, Mary, all those months ago. “It’s good to see you, Heath.”  
“You too, Tom. Butch.”  
With a flick of his razor, Butch scraped a wad of hair-speckled shaving cream from his client’s nape. “I’m just about done here, nerd. We can talk while I finish up.”  
“That’s alright, candy ass. I can wait.” Heath dropped into one of the revolving chairs and swung her legs to and fro.  
It was fitting, that one who treasured his hair above all other features should tend to everyone else’s. She watched him work, quite taken aback; who’d have thought that Butch DeLoria would ever take anything seriously, let alone boast a modicum of skill? There was passion in him, a true pride in his work. She was almost impressed.  
“What do you think?” he asked, presenting his client with a hand mirror. Tom examined the back of his hair.  
“Great as always,” he said. “Thanks, Butch. I’d best be off. Catch you two later.”  
Butch swept the floor and cleaned his tools, then turned to Heath. “There you go again, lookin’ at me all weird. What, never seen someone get a haircut before?”  
“Only my own in a mirror. Wadsworth does mine.”  
“What kinda name…Who is that?”  
“Personal robot butler. Like Andy but less…incompetent. He came with my house in Megaton.”  
“Didn’t know you had your own pad.”  
“Why would you? I’ve never brought it up; you’ve never asked.”  
“Right.” He twirled a pair of scissors, in a manner that suggested he’d spent much time perfecting the move. “So, are you here for a trim or what? Your ends are lookin’ a little ragged.”  
Heath fluffed her lustrous, coffee-dark mane. “Good one. No, I’m here to tell you to go pack and be economical about it. We’ll get you some gear and a gun in Megaton. Ready to go topside?”  
Butch paled. “Topside? Today?”  
“You’ll need to be prepared for the unexpected once we’re out there. Consider this practice. But don’t worry—the town isn’t far, and I plan to test your abilities on radroaches and the like before we venture any further. Baby steps.”  
“Abilities? Mine? Practice? Radroaches?”  
“Did I stutter?”  
“Where else are we going?”  
“A lot of places. Amata needs us to establish alliances—supply lines and all that—and I know a lot of people. We’ll make for Rivet City, eventually. It’s about half a day from here, without any obstacles. Of which there are many. Like I said, baby steps.”  
Heath was past the point of deriving pleasure from the pain of her erstwhile bully. They were both adults; it was time to relinquish such things to the past. To be sure, the smile she sported held nothing close to delight, no kernel of satisfaction.  
“Aw, fuck. You’re killin’ me, nerd. You really are.”  
She raised her leg and swirled a little foot in his direction. “Hey now, I’m doing you a favor.” He pushed the offending limb out of the way, only to be gently kicked by the other. “Go get ready, partner. We leave within the hour. Meet me at the Vault entrance.”

Rifle on her back, pistol at each hip, Heath consulted her Pip-Boy. Five minutes to go. Butch arrived a few moments later, keyed up but determined. His blanched face broke into a grin. “Didn’t know you were the sentimental type,” he said.  
“On the contrary, I’m the practical type,” she replied primly, securing the strap of her baseball cap around her braid. “Who’d say no to a free jacket?”  
“Ha, only a crazy person.”  
“Exactly. Ready?”  
The day was cool and clear, the sky a dome of bright blue and scudding clouds above them. Throwing up her arms, Heath breathed deep the air. Wind and sun caressed her face, and the earth was warm and yielding underfoot. How she’d missed this freedom, how she relished its return! Her body thrummed with newfound vitality. When she turned to Butch she saw that he’d been ogling her, quite oblivious to the landscape. “You alright, candy ass? You won’t fall up into the sky, I promise. You’ll get your ground-legs soon enough. Just takes some time.”  
Still, he ogled.  
“Uh, anybody home? Butch?”  
“You look…different, out here, in all this light,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.  
“Different? Is the sun getting in your eyes? I have an extra pair of shades.”  
“I just mean…you look nice, is all.”  
Heath winked and stood on tiptoe to perch the sunglasses on his nose, tuck the temples behind his ears. “Let’s get you to Megaton before you experience sensory overload, yeah?”

Butch took in the shantytown, the rusted metal sheets, the winding, crooked ramps and bridges. His eyes lingered on the deactivated bomb, a big black and silver boulder smack in the middle of it all. Heath offered him a hit of Jet to soothe his nerves, which he accepted without hesitation.  
On their way to Craterside Supply, she waved to and exchanged hellos with every denizen they passed. “Are you, like, the Overseer of this place or what?” he asked, hazy-eyed and loose of limb.  
She elbowed his side. “Hush up, DeLoria. Don’t give them any ideas.”  
Moira Brown looked about ready to squeal at the sight of Butch. _Nice job_ , she mouthed, when he moved to inspect a brown leather jacket.  
_We are not together_ , Heath mouthed back, hands crossed in an X-shape.  
Moira cocked a brow. _Really_?  
Butch turned around and looked between them curiously. “How about a shotgun?” said Heath, a little too quickly. “I snipe, you take on opponents at close-range? Moira will reinforce your Vault suit like she did mine, free of charge. I have a pistol for you back at my house. Sound good to you?”  
Butch took a moment to reply. “Ah, yeah. Sounds good…to me. Can we…can we take a nap?”  
Moira wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. Eyes to the heavens, Heath crossed her arms. “Dammit, I should have known you can’t handle your chems. Yes, fine, you can take a nap. A short one. _Alone_. I have a guest room.”  
Butch scooped up the brown leather jacket. “I like this.”  
“Congratulations. I’m not buying it for you.”  
“I like this. I like it.”  
“Fuck me running. Moira, hold everything for me? I’ll come back later, once I’m certain little Vault boy here won’t tumble off a bridge to his death.”  
Heath dragged him up and around the maze of rickety ramps to her house. Upon entry, the beeps and hums of her lab equipment greeted them. “Beep,” said Butch, a dopey smile on his lips. “Beep beep. So many buttons. Wow.”  
“Don’t you even _think_ about touching anything, you mentally incompetent buffoon.”  
Wadsworth floated up to them. “Anything I can do to assist, madame? Your companion seems quite the worse for wear.”  
“Good observation. And water and snacks, if you please. You can put them in the guest room.” Heath extricated herself from the arm Butch had slung around her shoulders. “Thanks, Andy. I mean, Wadsworth. Sorry.”  
“Of course, madame.”  
“Now you.”  
“Me?” Butch wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “What about me?”  
She sighed against his abdomen, just below his chest, then tilted back her head to look at him. “You need food, water, and sleep. We’ll talk later. And for the record—”  
Her words were cut off by his mouth.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always much appreciated :)

With startling gentleness, he cupped her face in his hands. Heath’s mouth parted of its own volition, and his teeth pinched her lower lip, tugging, worrying. A different sort of sigh escaped her.  
Fortunately, she remembered herself. “Hold on, hold up, you’re high as a fucking kite,” she said, as lightly as she could, and hopped back a few feet. She crossed her arms over her heaving breast. “Um, at any rate, this isn’t…this isn’t what we do. No more of that.”  
Butch was too deep in his chem-trance to respond with anything more than a smile. Under any other circumstance, she might have found it adorable—endearing, even. He looked so boyish, so cheeky yet terribly innocent. So unlike the Butch she had known and once despised. No longer a snot-nosed, braid-yanking little brat, he was handsome and tall, the youthful lines of his body broadening, giving way to those of a man. Still a dork who thought he was a smooth-talker, but a very pretty one.  
As if he’d read her mind, he whispered several complimentary things in her ear, not all of them chaste. “Alright, let’s get you to bed,” said Heath. “Christ on a stick, how much do you weigh? Care to assist, Wadsworth? Fat ass over here’s about to break every bone in my body.”  
“Yes, Miss Huang.”  
With that, woman and machine delivered their cargo to the little room on the ground floor and deposited him on the bed without ceremony. Butch stretched and groaned and said, “Not gonna join me, Doc?”  
“Not if you paid me a thousand caps, kid.” Heath rooted around for a blanket. “Here, I’m going to wake you up in forty-five,” she said, draping three over his supine body.  
“Hmph.”  
She spent some time crafting Stimpaks and Med-X in her lab and stuffed as many as she could into their travel-sized first aid kits. Content to have Wadsworth play nurse, she returned to Craterside Supply. “Oh, Catherine, I saw the way he looks at you,” said Moira, as soon as Heath entered. “It’s so sweet, and you would be such a cute couple! What in the heck is stopping you?”  
“As I told you before, he tormented me throughout most of our formative years,” said Heath, tossing a box of shotgun shells between her hands. “You do realize we don’t exactly get along? I mean, he was high, anyway. I don’t think he was capable of parsing most of the things he saw.”  
“Excuses, excuses! Ooh, you could just slice up the sexual tension between you two with a broken butter knife.”  
“An interesting metaphor, but I’ve got bigger things to worry about. Can’t we talk about something else? Haven’t seen you in a few weeks. What’s going on in Megaton?”  
Moira ran oil-smeared fingers through her tousled, titian locks. “Well, since you ‘accidentally’ killed Moriarty, Gob’s taken over the saloon, renamed it Gob’s Saloon. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, but who am I to judge? Nova’s a waitress-slash-bartender now—that is to say, no longer a whore—Lucy’s brother moved in with her, Maggie asked after you—I think she wants you to visit her and Billy—oh, and our little survival guide is the number one bestselling book in the Capital Wasteland!”  
“That’s great, Moira. I’m sure it’s already helped a lot of people. If you want, I can take some copies and sell them to people in the settlements I frequent.”  
“Really? Do you mean it? I know I said before that you didn’t have to, but if it’s not too much of a hassle?”  
“Anything for a pal.”  
Thereafter Heath made for home, guns, ammo, and a sack of books in tow. Butch was horizontal but mostly conscious. “What’s the story, morning glory?” she sang and cracked open a bottle of Nuka-Cola Quantum. “Drink. Wake up and be a good boy. Oh, who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy? You are!”  
Butch propped himself up on an arm, still a little doped up, if his bleary eyes and sluggish movements were any indications. “I ain’t a dog,” he said.  
“No, but you sure acted like one. Or do you not remember?”  
He flushed, averting his gaze, and seized the proffered soda. “Yeah, about that…”  
“I said we would talk later. It’s later, so let’s talk. I know you were, ah, very much under the influence earlier—which was my fault and I’m sorry—but what the hell was all that about? We’re not out here on some sort of weird honeymoon, Butch. You agreed to come with me, and in turn, I’ll help you out. You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I’d appreciate it if you took things at least a little seriously. If you’d at least try to take _me_ seriously, for once.”  
“Hey, whoa, you kissed me back.”  
“Not the point.”  
Bloodshot eyes assessed her over the lip of the bottle, which glowed between his long, tapered fingers. “I hear what you’re sayin’. I get it, alright? I feel bad about it, honest, and I’ll, uh…I won’t do it again. So it’s only fair that I get to ask you somethin’, right? You want me to take you seriously? Do the same for me.”  
Who the hell was she talking to? Not Butch DeLoria, surely; he was pink-faced, stuttering and flustered, like a child enamored—and downright frightened—of someone he’d never spoken to. But he wasn’t being unreasonable. A bit juvenile, but not unreasonable. “Fine, I guess,” said Heath, letting out a breath. “Fine, go ahead. Shoot.”  
“Last week, you got loaded and damn well tried to seduce me in the clinic. Today, I kissed you, sure, but you _did_ kiss me back. What am I supposed to think? What the hell’s all _this_ about?”  
“What this is, is trite.”  
“Come on, Heath, answer the question.” Oh no. The using-her-actual-name trope. He meant business. What’s more, he was being genuine.  
Heath set a Cram sandwich on the nightstand, nudged it toward him. “There’s as much attraction between us as there is enmity,” she said bluntly, ensuring that he took a few bites. “Maybe less enmity than there used to be, but when have we ever gone a day without bickering at the very least? Flirting and sex is fine—the latter when we’re on equal footing, so to speak—but anything beyond that would be too messy. To be honest, I’d mostly just like to see if we can continue getting along. What do you think?”  
Butch, having swilled his soda, was far more attentive. “I guess it’s about time we let bygones be bygones, huh, nosebleed? You know, if we’re being honest here, I gotta say that you can be real fuckin’ scary when you’re mad. It’s pretty hot.”  
She let out a gurgle of laughter. “Degenerate.”

The radroach crunched beneath the butt of her gun as she smashed it to a pulp, guts and broken carapace flying out in all directions. She repeated the move on a few more; bullets weren’t to be wasted on insects. The rest she left to her partner.  
Heath loathed close-range combat. This, however, was a matter of teaching, not of preference. “Don’t be afraid to really grind them up, if you have to,” she said. Not for the first time, Butch grimaced as he set to work. She raised her brows; he wasn’t the squeamish type. “You’re doing just fine. Better than fine. What’s going on?”  
“I hate these damn things,” he muttered, bashing with reckless abandon. Where she had finesse, he had brute strength. It was rather thrilling to see him employ it, even if he did look about ready to vomit.  
“You didn’t have a problem with molerats or mirelurks—or even bloatflies. I thought you’d overcome your katsaridaphobia at this point.”  
“Unless you’re diagnosin’ me with somethin’, cool it with the big words. I’m done, see.” Butch swept his hands toward the pile of radroach corpses.  
“Fun fact: you don’t actually diagnose people, you diagnose _symptoms_. And you have most certainly exhibited symptoms of katsaridaphobia.” Heath toed an errant carapace. “That is, a fear of roaches.”  
“Is there a cure, Doc Know-It-All?”  
“Exposure therapy.”  
Filthy and perspiring, they rounded the ragged cylinder of Megaton and reentered the settlement, shadowed by the setting sun. Their boots kicked up little storms of dust as they limped down the long, sloping hill. At the bottom they were greeted by none other than Lucas Simms, who sang to Heath his praises and gave her an avuncular squeeze on the shoulder. Her insides tightened at that, so reminded was she of her father. The encounter left her with a yen for drink, thus they made for Gob’s Saloon without delay.  
Heath possessed of a veritable liquor store at home, but there was nothing quite like a gloomy tavern to match one’s spirits. Amata had been right. Leaving the Vault again had helped assuage the wound of loss; Heath had a new purpose, an aim to aid as many as she could, _without_ dire consequences. Yet there were times when the smallest of things—a touch, a look, even a simple word—had the capacity to break her heart all over again.  
As luck would have it, scotch was a hell of an anesthetic. “Just one drink, then we’ll head back for dinner and tuck in early,” she said, taking a dainty sip. “We’ve spent the better part of another week training. I’d say it’s time to move out.”  
Butch tapped the ash from his cigarette into an empty glass. “Just one drink?”  
“Oh, screw off. Two at most. It’s been a long day.”  
“Alright. Where are we off to tomorrow?”  
“Big Town, then Little Lamplight. They’re just kids, all on their own in the Wastes. More than capable of handling themselves, but I like to check in as often as I can. Little Lamplight’s been taking care of Dogmeat, too. I’m sure he misses me.” She couldn’t abandon those kids, let alone her dog. They needed her as much as she needed them.  
On their way out, Gob and Nova pulled her in for a double-hug. “You ever need anything, honey, you just let us know,” said Nova, planting a kiss on her lips. “Come back and see me anytime.” One last smoldering look and the waitress sauntered away. Gob, however, lingered.  
“Letter for you,” he said. Heath, too tired and grief-stricken to care overmuch, merely thanked him and shoved the note into her pack.  
Butch was already outside. “Lotta friends you got, nerd.”  
“Perks of being a local hero. Let’s go, I’m starved.”

She craved a sleep so deep and dreamless it seemed like death. Eyes shut tight, she willed it, wore down her nerves to the brink of exhaustion, to no avail. Sleep would not come tonight.  
No sound came as she cried, curled up over the bend of her knees, the soft, worn fabric of her father’s T-shirt drenched by a deluge of tears. “Dad,” she whispered, over and over, a word she’d not uttered since his death. “I miss you so much, Dad. I just want you back.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's see where this goes, eh?

They stole into series of caves festooned with string lights and stalactites, littered with lanterns, accompanied by the music of water dripping on stone. At the tumbledown gate was a little boy with a sniper rifle on his back. “You look like shit, Heath Bar,” said Robert Joseph MacCready, though he blushed furiously at the sight of her. He was the sort to dole out nicknames—not all of them flattering—left and right. Yet this particular epithet was not unwelcome, as only the children of Little Lamplight knew her true name.  
“Good to see you, too,” said Heath, jogging along the path to the Great Chamber.  
“No, I mean, you _really_ look like shit.”  
“Hey, kid, you better watch it,” said Butch.  
“And just who the fuck are you, mungo?”  
“Mungo? Who the fuck are _you_?”  
“Mac, meet Butch. Butch, meet MacCready, also known as RJ. Don’t try to call him Mac. And you, Mac, don’t try to call him Bitch. It’s as rude as it is unoriginal. Now both of you, shut it or so help me.” Heath gave the little mayor’s helmet an affectionate flick and strolled ahead on the wooden walkway. In due course, the trio squirreled themselves away in one of the Chamber’s suspended rooms. “So, Mac, how’s tricks?” she said, sitting and extending her legs. Dogmeat crawled into her lap, in the way of big dogs who thought they weighed no more than five pounds.  
“You writing a book?” MacCready scrunched up his nose, still button-like and snubbed with childhood. “Why are you always asking people how they are?”  
“Because I care, you little ass. I’m one of you, which means you’re one of mine. Get used to it.”  
MacCready grinned; he liked people who could be just as recalcitrant as he, even if he knew they weren’t so by nature. “Alright, alright. Calm down. Knock Knock’s sick with something even Lucy can’t fix, we’re low on supplies in general, and a lot of other stuff. Man, I don’t know. I mean, you haven’t been here in a long fuckin’ while. There’s a lot needs fixing. It’s a damn good thing you brought supplies with you, but we won’t turn away any more help. Your huge ass bozo of a boyfriend could stand to chip in. He takes up too much space as it is.”  
MacCready would never say it outright, but he’d missed her. He was the chief of what felt like a dozen younger siblings, vying for her attention in one way or another. Heath chuckled and scratched Dogmeat behind the ears. “Firstly, I’m here now—for trading and pleasure both—and I’ll do what I can to help, of course. Secondly, this big ass bozo here is just my traveling partner. Be nice.”  
“So he’s a Vaultie, too, huh?”  
“Mhm. Just like me. You can trust him.”  
“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!”  
On a whim Heath rubbed Butch’s thigh, prompting a scowl from MacCready. “We know you’re here. We’re just catching up.” The little boy puffed up at that and threw Butch a nasty look.  
“What’s with the third degree, kid?”  
“Third degree? I’m being downright fuckin’ amicable.”  
As ever, spoiling for a fight. Heath gently pushed Dogmeat from her lap. It seemed “catching up” would have to wait, for everyone’s sake. “I’ll just leave you two to this weird, intergenerational pissing contest,” she said irritably. “I’m off to see Knock Knock and Lucy. You know where to find me. Stay, Dogmeat. Good boy! We can play later.”

The tiny, tawny-eyed girl thrust herself into Heath’s arms and dragged her deeper into the office building. “I’m so glad you’re here, Heath,” she said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with her. I’ve kept her isolated from the others. She has a terrible cough but it’s different from the usual asthma.”  
Knock Knock lay on a dirty mattress, covered in blankets, a pillow tucked beneath her head. Her cheeks were a febrile shade of pink, her breathes strained and ragged. Heath pitched to her knees, cursing herself for not coming sooner. “Hey, Knock,” she said. “Not feeling so great? No, it’s alright, you don’t have to say anything. I’m happy to see you, too. Lucy, would you grab a piece of paper from the schoolroom?” When the little physician returned, Heath took the white sheaf, rolled it into a tube and peeled the blankets from Knock Knock’s chest. “Let’s check on your breathing. Ooh, that’s some wheezing you’ve got there. What’s the verdict on the mucus, Luce?”  
“Bloody. I gave her Med-X for the fever and headaches and aches and pains. Didn’t seem to help. Maybe had something to do with asthma?”  
“You’re probably right. I wouldn’t give her ibuprofen, either. How long has she been like this?”  
“A little over two months.”  
“Could end up being chronic bronchitis. Why didn’t you send for me? You knew where I was, and even if you didn’t you had Dogmeat. He’d have found me.”  
Lucy primmed up her mouth, ever the proud, maternal healer. “It doesn’t matter now. You’re here, aren’t you? And you brought supplies? RJ told me about the caravan.”  
“Only food and the medical basics, what you requested the last time I was here. What we really need is a long-acting bronchodilator paired with corticosteroids, but the Vault no longer has access to that sort of specific treatment, not since the rebellion. Dammit.”  
"So what can we do?”  
They ceased speaking as their patient endured a particularly bad coughing fit, spitting up red-tinged mucus. Heath cleaned up the mess and propped her up with another pillow. “Paracetamol in lieu of Med-X should alleviate some of the symptoms,” she said. “Beyond that, lots of bed rest and plenty of fluids. If it turns to pneumonia, antibiotics. Luckily, we had some penicillin to spare. It’s alright, Knock. You’re going to be just fine. Luce and I are going to take care of you together, and I won’t leave until you’re feeling better. Promise. How about we get you medicated and set you up with some tea?”  
Knock Knock was, however, far worse than Heath had let on. Chronic bronchitis would require a lifetime of treatment—treatment that wasn’t available to anyone in the Capital Wasteland. In the meantime, if she became pneumonic there was no knowing whether she was allergic to penicillin until she took it.  
Heath informed Lucy once their patient had fallen asleep. The little girl blanched but took it in stride. “I’m just glad you’re here,” she said, entwining her fingers with Heath’s.  
“I won’t leave you while you need me. I won’t leave, Luce.”  
That night, Heath dragged another mattress into Knock Knock’s sickroom and slept not a wink. With the string lights and chandelier turned off, the glow of her Pip-Boy screen burned her eyes whenever she checked the time. Nine o’clock. Ten o’clock. Eleven o’clock. At the stroke of midnight, a figure ducked beneath the lintel and interrupted her vigil. “That Lucy kid came back to the Chamber a while ago and fell right asleep,” it said, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Was wonderin’ where you were. Thought you’d be back by now.”  
Heath found her feet. “Well, here I am. Do you need something?”  
“Just checkin’ in, Doc. Ain’t no harm in that, is there?”  
“Guess not. Let’s go somewhere else. Don’t want to wake her.”  
They squeezed into the room next door. There was barely enough room for the two of them. Even so, Butch resumed a casual pose against the wall, one long leg extended. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked. “Is the kid gonna be alright?”  
“I don’t know,” she said. Her voice sounded so small, so weak. She was a piss poor physician, unable to separate the clinical from the personal. That had been her father’s gift: maintaining emotional distance despite his warm, charming demeanor. Not unfeeling, just professional. The way she ought to be.  
“You’re usin’ a lot less words than usual.”  
That sense of weakness, of helplessness and fear, made her suddenly cruel. “Of course I fucking am, you fucking mouth-breather,” she hissed, venom in the words. “What kind of comment is that? Knock Knock could very well die and I might not be able to do anything to prevent it. And while we’re at it, why all the inane questions, Butch? You are so goddamn _clueless_ sometimes. Why can’t you just keep your mouth shut? Why even come here if you’re not going to be any fucking help?”  
Heath might have continued her diatribe, were it not for his expression. Not angry, not indignant—no, he was _concerned_. Somehow, that stoked up her rage all the more. Why wasn’t he fighting back? Where did he get off?  
She wanted to hit him. She wanted to jump his bones. She wanted to scream. Instead, she shook like a leaf and found that no words could convey what she felt. How trite.  
She did not fight the arms that pulled her in and held her close, drew her to the floor and placed her in a large, warm lap. The fingers that stroked her hair, the back of her neck, were whisper-soft, gentle as a breeze upon her face. A broad hand massaged her lower back, then trailed up her spine.  
She pressed a smooth cheek to a stubbled one. In such close proximity, the scent of pomade was an aromatic haze—soothing, not aggravating. The scent was reminiscent of home.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Currently fighting the urge to make them do the deed...

Croaks and coughs and the trudge of booted feet returned them to the waking world. Heath looked around. They were back in Lucy’s examination room, curled up on the mattress. She was on her side, Butch behind her with an arm around her waist, one particular piece of his anatomy making itself known. A natural response, she supposed; he was only human.  
She noticed then that Lucy, Knick Knack, and MacCready stood in the doorway, and sat up to shove her jacket—previously a makeshift pillow—in front of Butch’s groin. He grunted but made no protest. Across the room, Knock Knock wheezed her every breath. Heath scrambled across the space between them. “Have you listened to her chest?” she asked. Lucy shook her head.  
“We woke up a bit ago,” said MacCready, casting a rather petulant glance at Butch. “It’s only seven.”  
“How is she?” asked Knick Knack.  
“Can you talk comfortably, Knock Knock?” asked Lucy.  
“Don’t feel so good. Why is everyone—think I might—” Heath had the bucket ready just as the girl voided her stomach.  
“There’s no knowing whether it’s pneumonia without a chest X-ray or a sputum or blood test,” said Heath sotto voce, coming up to the trio. “We can’t treat it as such without certainty.”  
“Then what the fuckin’ hell _can_ we do?” MacCready demanded.  
Why— _why_ —hadn’t she thought to request medical equipment from Dr. Li, or at the very least had the courage to delve into her father’s terminal for insight? All she had was knowledge and no way to wield it. Fat load of good that would do. “Take it down a notch. You need to work on your bedside manner, Mac. Lucy and I will proceed as planned with treatment: bed rest, fluids and painkillers. It’s really all we can do for the time being.”  
Knick Knack rushed to his twin’s side. “Hey, Knock Knock!” he said. “They say I can see you and not get sick. I brought you some Dandy Boy Apples…”  
Heath motioned for Butch to rise and all save the twins quit the room. Out in the hall, she placed herself at his side—or perhaps it was the other way around—whereupon he wrapped his old jacket around her. A hand enveloped her shoulder, squeezing lightly. “Look, Big Doc and I here had a long night, and it’d probably be best for all of us if we got some grub before gettin’ down to business,” said Butch, ignoring MacCready’s grunt of distaste.  
Heath didn’t typically allow anyone to speak for her, but for the moment her head was swimming. “Yes, food, of course,” she said and nodded briskly. “We’ll get food, make some soup and tea for Knick Knack, then regroup. Have you two eaten?”  
Lucy and MacCready nodded in unison. The former’s brow furrowed. “Relax, Heath Bar,” she said. “We’ll hold down the fort till you get back.”  
“Sounds like a plan, Li’l Doc,” said Butch, ruffling her hair. The girl blushed and shifted her attention to her toes.  
“Yeah, alright, let’s go.”  
Without further ado, he took Heath by the arm and hauled her back into the caverns. They passed a handful of Little Lamplighters on their way to Eclair, all of whom gave Heath a giant bear-hug before scurrying off into the gloom. At the Spelunkers restaurant, the duo slouched onto opposite sides of a picnic table. Eclair approached them, a pen and a pad of paper in hand. “With all the supplies you brought, there’s so much I can make now,” he said. “I can’t believe there’ll really be a caravan coming here every week! Thanks, Heath, and thank the rest of Vault 101 and whoever else is involved for me, for all of us. So, what’ll it be?”  
“One deathclaw-egg-and-brahmin omelet with two forks, tea for me, and two glasses of punga fruit juice,” said Heath. “Thanks, Eclair.”  
Butch ran his fingers through sleep-tousled, slightly overgrown curls and risked a glance at her. “You gonna be okay, nerd?” he asked.  
Heath was certain he’d never deigned to express interest in her wellbeing. The very notion made her laugh, a full, belly-aching, quite delirious sound. “Oh, _shit_ ,” she said at length, gulping down a residual giggle. “Shit. Heh. _Whew_. Yes, yeah, I think I’ll be okay. Thanks for, um, you know, last night. Sorry for taking everything out on you, Butch. You may be a pain in my ass most days but you didn’t deserve that.”  
“That’s it. You’ve officially gone insane.” He gave a low whistle. “Wasteland’s really takin’ its toll on you, huh?”  
Heath admired the way his well-formed lips puckered, so much so that she found herself distracted. He’d posed another question and she hadn’t caught any of it. In lieu of fumbling for words, she answered him with a tucked-down chin, narrow eyes at half-mast before she slowly raised them. The oldest trick in the book—one that always worked. “I’m hungry, too hungry to think or talk about anything else,” she said, practically purred. “Aren’t you?”  
She thought he might redden or make one of his awkward, inarticulate noises. But it was not to be. He leaned forward, scanned every inch of her face, wet those distracting lips. “You got no idea.”  
The clash of ceramic and tin cut things short. Eclair had brought their drinks.  
“Thanks,” said Heath, downing her juice. Butch did the same.

The next few nights found them sleeping side by side, if only out of habit. In the Wasteland, it was to keep warm; here, it was no different. The air in Little Lamplight was damp and chill, enough to set one’s teeth chattering. Still, there was a comfort in closeness Heath could not deny.  
They lay on a mattress in the Great Chamber, for Lucy had seen fit to stay with Knock Knock till morning. Heath pressed closer to Butch and the arm below her breasts tightened. Caring for Knock Knock all day had left her bone-tired and ill at ease. She couldn’t stop moving. Somehow, Butch had yet to say anything.  
She moved again, this time turning to face him, her face but inches from his. He adjusted his lean, muscle-bound arm accordingly. Her hands ranged over his pectorals, where she laid the palms flat, marking him in the glow of the string lights above. “You puttin’ the moves on me, nosebleed?” he murmured, breath warm and minty, laced with a hint of tobacco. “Can’t say I’m opposed to blowin’ off steam, but considerin’ our location? You know, in a cave, surrounded by underage kids…That just ain’t right.”  
“I’m not ‘puttin’ the moves’ on you, candy ass. I’m cold.”  
“Liar.”  
“Shut it.”  
“Damn, you really do have a gorgeous head of hair.”  
“Now who’s ‘puttin’ the moves’ on who?”  
“I’m a barber. Hair’s my thing and half of yours is in my face. I’m bein’ as clinical as you are with, like, medical shit and tech. Can I cut it?”  
“ _May_ you cut it.”  
“Not too short that you won’t be able to braid it. Say, shoulder length?”  
“What? That’s way too short!"  
“Aw, c’mon. It’s way too long.”  
“Hm. I’ll think about it. Now let go.”  
Butch unwound the locks from his fist and smoothed them over her shoulder. His hand lingered, warm on her back.  
It had been two months since they’d left Vault 101. Taking on contracts everywhere they could, raking in the caps, and spending a good three weeks helping rebuild and supply Big Town had left little time to think, let alone talk, of their relationship. Yet on the whole, they were in accord; they helped others, plunged into the heat of battle together. They were partners, even friends.  
Shoves and swats and spooning for warmth proved the extent of their intimacy, though attraction practically festered between them. No moves were made on either side, however; for they were getting along at last and it wouldn’t do to muddle things.  
Indeed, sex wasn’t forbidden fruit, just psychologically inadvisable fruit. There were more important matters to attend.  
But a little innocent touching wouldn’t bring about the end of the world.  
Heath felt his olive-skinned cheek. “If I let you cut my hair, you have to let me shave you,” she said.  
“No way, toots,” he said. “A man’s face is different than gams or armpits. Shavin’s an art form.”  
“I’ve shaved a man’s face before, DeLoria.”  
“Whose?”  
“Paladin in the Brotherhood. Guy named Bael.”  
“Why the hell did you shave him?"   
“Why the hell not?”  
“Ha, just wonderin’ if he’s still alive.”  
“Very funny. His dominant hand was broken, smashed to smithereens by a super mutant. I saw him struggling and offered to help. It was pretty intuitive.”  
“Don’t tell me little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes snuck into the men’s bathroom?”  
“The door was open. I just happened to be passing by.” She followed his jawline with her nails. “Granted, he had a lot more facial hair than you do but I think I could manage.”  
“And it was just a shave, nothin’ else?”  
“That time, yes. Later on, well, that’s really none of your concern, is it?”  
“I’m learnin’ new things about you every day.”  
Without a word, Heath snuggled into him and closed her eyes. Butch commenced caressing her hair, smoothing the tresses behind her ears, down her neck and back.  
She did not mind it in the least.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to have a penchant for short chapters but I might attempt to write longer, more cohesive ones??
> 
> Things get a little NSFW at the end.

Butch pitched the ball and Heath whacked it with her bat. Tail swishing, Dogmeat barked and barreled after the white sphere. The day was unseasonably warm, thus they’d abandoned armor layers in favor of jeans and short sleeves. She wore her father’s T-shirt, the blue-gray hem tucked into her waistband—a piece of home, an artifact unto her bat and cap. Save the presence of Dogmeat—and a lack of other players—this was a collegial re-enactment of their past: Butch as pitcher, Heath as designated hitter.  
She needed fresh air and movement. Just three hours ago, after days of deliberation, she’d dosed Knock Knock with penicillin, and remained at the girl’s side until certain of her safety. Relief arrived in the form of aching limbs, loosed at last from stress and self-imposed tension. But Knock Knock was on the mend; that was all that mattered.  
Dogmeat ran to Butch and dropped the ball at his feet. “Thanks, buddy,” said Butch, scratching the mutt behind the ears. Again, he pitched and Heath whacked.  
“Almost eight years later and I’m still kicking your ass!” she crowed.  
“We ain’t got no ump or catcher, nosebleed! Don’t be so sure!”  
“We don’t _need_ a catcher since there’s nothing to catch!” She doffed her cap as Dogmeat came running, this time setting the ball before her and rolling onto his back. At that she flounced to the ground and rubbed his belly. “Hi there, little muffin. You tired? We’ve been playing for a while, huh? How about some water?”  
A rustle of grass, a crunch of earth, and Butch was beside her, waving a bottle of Aqua Pura. “C’mere, boy,” he cooed. The mutt lapped eagerly at the stream tipped above his snout.  
Heath could not restrain her smile. Man’s best friend, indeed. “See somethin’ you like?” asked Butch.  
“As a matter of fact, I do,” she said and grabbed the water from his other hand. He snatched it back, holding it too high for her to reach while seated. “Oh, get bent, you fucking giant.”  
She pulled a face and felt his eyes linger long on her mouth. Such were the games they played of late—of staring and gauging reactions as if goading the other into taking initiative. It was fun, for the most part. Yet impatience coursed through her, for she desired him in a way that was almost purely physical.  
Almost. Yes, there was the rub.  
Dogmeat pushed his nose against her denim-clad thigh. “Looks like your ma ain’t payin’ much attention, pal,” said Butch. “That’s a real shame. How ‘bout you roll with me from now on?”  
“Hey, he may have been a rough and tumble pooch before he met me but it’s way too dangerous out there for a sweet little guy like him,” said Heath, giving said pooch a kiss on the head. “Besides, he has doggy-friends here. Don’t you, boy? Yes, he always listens to his ‘ma.’”  
“What, he can’t have a pops too?”  
“Last time I checked he was _my_ , uh…son.”  
“What about joint custody?”  
“Is there a recent divorce I’ve failed to recall, dearest?”  
Butch elbowed her side. “Always wanted a dog, y’know. Saw 'em in pictures in the Vault and all that and just knew I had to have one someday.”  
“So _that’s_ why you chose to stick around. You knew about this guy from the get-go. I see how it is.”  
“I’ve stuck around for other reasons.” He chucked her under the chin, the infuriating, toothsome bastard. “A lotta reasons.”  
“Care to elaborate?”  
“I’ll say this: you ain’t half bad these days.”  
“Guess it’s been a while since you pulled my hair and called me a fugly dipstick, which really wasn’t fair or true. I know you’ve always thought I was pretty.”  
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a knock-out. Still don’t mean I _like_ you or nothin’.”  
“Don’t like me?” said Heath, touching the back of his neck. “I think you like me at least a little now, even if you’re only in this for my dog.”  
“Cut the gas, nosebleed. You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”  
“Don’t be a child. There’s no need to get defensive. I won’t tell. Heath and Butch, getting along? What would people say? I wouldn’t want anyone to know, either.”  
“Hey, I—”  
Dogmeat, starved for attention, let out a plaintive whine. It seemed words would have to wait.

A confection of cloud-white frosting and green piping, the cake was crowned with a wreath of twenty flames. The children of Little Lamplight had gathered in Spelunkers and made a circle around Butch, all bedecked in party hats and bright, tattered clothing. “You go to one of those pre-war culinary schools, Eclair?” he asked, then blew out the candles. Claps and cheers and whistles reverberated in the cavern.  
Eclair beamed. “Glad you like it. Happy birthday, Butch!”  
“Thanks, kiddo.”  
Knife in hand, Heath stepped forward to cut and dole out slices. She topped the birthday boy’s piece with a glazed, cinnamon-swirled pastry. “Happy birthday, candy ass,” she said, rising on her toes to kiss his cheek. “Here’s that sweetroll you always wanted from me. No need to threaten and punch me out this time. It’s all yours.”  
Butch laughed and tore the pastry in two, setting half on her plate. “If I remember rightly, nosebleed, you suggested sharin’ it.”  
“I never thought I’d see the day. Butch DeLoria, former Selfish Bastard, reformed.”  
“Yeah, well, don’t get used to it.”  
MacCready stormed up to them. He wasn’t angry or anything; it just happened that he stormed around wherever he went. Heath found it absolutely adorable. “Happy fuckin’ birthday, mungo,” said the little mayor. “A _real_ mungo now. Not even a teenager anymore. I oughta kick you out on your mungo ass pronto!”  
“Hey, be nice, RJ!” called Knock Knock, curled up in a chair with some tea. She was wan and still rather frail-looking, but Heath knew there was little cause to worry.  
Butch laughed and joked amidst the children, accepting various gifts and well-wishes with a smile so wide it must have hurt his face. He was good with them, sweet, like a doting older brother. It was a side of him she’d never seen—though, to be fair, there hadn’t been much opportunity to interact with young children in the Vault.  
Sometime later, he caught her eye and jerked his chin towards an empty corner. “Good birthday?” she asked, following him.  
“Good birthday. So, thanks bunches for the sweetroll, but what about cutting your hair?”  
Heath feigned incredulity. “First an overdue peace offering, now an exercise of trust?”  
“C’mon. You said you’d think about it.”  
“‘Think’ being the operative word. Oh, don’t make that face. You look like a clinically depressed deathclaw. Okay, fine. I guess I could use a trim.”  
As night fell, they sequestered themselves in the shack outside of Little Lamplight, his bag of tools and a tub of water in tow. By the glow of several lanterns, he washed and conditioned her hair, then wrung out the moisture. “A head’s up, before we start,” she said, holding up a finger as he drew a black plastic comb through the strands, scissors poised at her ends. “If you make it too short I’m giving you mutton chops and breaking all your razors. I don’t care if it’s your birthday. Alright, you can start. God help me.”  
The glide of the comb’s teeth across her scalp, through her hair, and the snip of scissors lulled her into a trance. As dark, gleaming sheafs floated to the floor and all around them, she felt a weight quite literally lifted from her shoulders. In the end, the locks swept just below her collarbones. The effect was quite pleasing. “Not too shabby,” she said, admiring herself in the hand mirror. “But now it’s your turn.”  
It was far from necessary, but once they’d switched positions Heath straddled him in the chair. Lathering his cheeks with a brush and soap, she used her other hand to wet the razor. Her work was slow, each scrape of the blade deliberate, a dangerous caress. “Not gonna slit my throat, nosebleed?” said Butch, fingers tapping her hips as the blade passed his jugular.  
“Not on purpose, candy ass. Hold still. I’m almost finished.” His face cleaned, she massaged some aftershave into his cheeks and lightly clapped them between her hands. Well, wasn’t he just disgustingly good-looking?  
As she breathed him in like smoke, her thumbs swept the supple, scented skin. Admiration shone, palpable in his eyes. Shit. _Shit_. Damn it all. “Just so you know, this isn’t a birthday present,” she said sharply and brought her face down upon his.  
However abrupt it was a slow, deep kiss, one of probing depths and inquisitive touches, of sighs and names intoned. She wove her fingers through his hair, pulled at curls long since bereft of pomade, and his hands drifted to her backside, clutching gently. “Fuckin’ hell, you’re beautiful,” he said, sinking his teeth into her plump bottom lip. “I can’t look at you without wantin’ you.”  
Heath pulled back to let him remove her shirt, unhook her bra. The night air was cold on her breasts, the brown nipples already stiff and pebble-like, but his large, calloused hands were warm. He drew her in as if making a mold of her body, cast to fit his and his alone. Her neck he coated in kisses, teeth and lips scouring every inch. "I want you,” he said, sliding a hand down the front of her pants. "God, I want you."  



	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that, Lassie? Two people gettin' to know each other biblically? Well, I'll be damned!

Last time it had been in a Vault storage closet. In that cramped space he’d taken her up against the wall, where the strings of curses they hurled at each other took on new—though no less combative—meaning. Anger had fanned the flames of lust within and without them, driven them both to the edge. It was bliss, in a twisted sense of the word. It was routine. That brand of rushed, bitter joining offered no place for thought; and for thought, there was no need.  
What she felt now was something entirely foreign. Gone were the “fuck you’s” and “fuck off’s” and “maybe I fucking will’s.’”  
_I want you_.  
Well, that much she’d surmised.  
His fingers brushed and pressed her mons, crept lower, then deeper. The wet, squelching sound that rang above their breathes was enough to make her pause, for all else was quiet. No shoves and tearing of clothes, no growls and bites, and scratches. Just touching, kissing, plain and simple.  
She panted and said, “I know, I know. I want you too.”  
His other hand grasped a breast, wandered down to a shapely, well-muscled thigh and tugged at the fabric encasing it. “Let’s get these off you,” he said.  
“You first.”  
Clothes relinquished to the floor, he scooped her up in his arms and moved for the dusty, off-white couch, where he dropped her onto the cushions. He then set his head between her legs, draping both over his shoulders, and parted the cleft of her sex. In him, there was urgency but not impatience, longing without a need for possession. He labored long and lovingly, and she came hard and loud and trembling, the spasms of release laying claim to his fingers, his tongue.  
She returned the favor and took him in her mouth, as deep as she could. Her tongue lapped, her head bobbed, her hands pumped and twisted. But the warm, wet suction of her mouth seemed not enough. “I want you,” he said once more, shifting their positions.  
“I want you too,” she said and moaned as he plunged into her.  
Each thrust of his cock within her was resolute as if nothing else in the world would ever concern him. Deeper and deeper he pushed, expanding, filling her. In her ear, he murmured the sweetest, most vulgar things to spur her onward and upward. Hence time was lost to them, a pointless and peripheral thing. “Come for me, in me,” she said at length, and he did as she asked, the heat of his climax surging into her.  
It was strange, for she did not feel drained but fulfilled, whole and warm and adored. One last kiss and he extracted himself, turned onto his side, and folded her into his arms.

Heath, half-dressed in a sweater and socks that drooped around her ankles, picked up Butch’s sweatshirt. Of soft grey cotton, a fissure-riddled Nuka-Cola logo swelled across the chest. It smelled of him: warm, male musk and sweat, the lingering spice of pomade. She’d have worn it herself, had he not looked so cold. “Think fast,” she said, flinging the garment at his face.  
He caught it with ease. “Nice try.”  
“Worth a shot.”  
“C’mere.”  
He swiveled her around and gathered up her hair. The wisp of weaving strands stayed any protests. “There we go,” he said and secured the end of the braid, which began at her crown and ended at her nape.  
“Where did you learn to braid?” she asked, feeling the bumps and hollows of the style.  
“What’d I say before, nerd? Hair’s my thing, my talent.” He pulled her back onto his lap and felt between her thighs. She had yet to find her underwear. So, too, had she yet to find the end of her desire. “I thought I took care of you, girl,” he said, digits prodding, poking—more taunting than pleasurable. “Gonna have to do somethin’ about that.”  
“We should be packing and there’s loads to—okay, _fuck_. Fucking hell. Wait, no, no, no stop it! You’ve had me upside down with my ass in the air enough for one night.” She pushed off him and, just for good measure, bent over to suck on his fingers. “Yeah, that’s enough for tonight, you oversexed cad. Gotta leave a little mystery.”  
Heath was nothing if not practical.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love that cheesy romance.

The shift in their dynamic was palpable. When Red came to oversee Knick Knack’s convalescence, the grin on her face had been drawn by the devil himself. “You two are getting along like the best of friends…and then some,” she said, cheeks round and dimpling. Her eyes twinkled behind her glasses.  
“Time heals lots of rifts,” said Heath. “Mac, for example. I’m shocked he let you back in, even if it’s just for a little while.”  
Red unwound the bandana from her close-cropped head. “It’s thanks to you and you know it,” she said, passing Heath the scrap of of red-and-white fabric. “I’ll offer my medical services free of charge again, even though I’m pretty sure you’ve got that covered for yourself—unless you’re close to dying. But I want you to have this too. I’d hate for you to get shot just because your hair’s falling in your face. A new ‘do won’t stop bullets any more than an ill-timed dodge.”  
“You sure you want me to have this?”  
“Of course.  
“But you’re, you know, _Red_.”  
“It’s a gift. Accept it, dammit.” The young woman glanced at her jumpsuit and bloodstained undershirt. “Anyway, I’ve got these. I think I’ll keep ‘em.”  
Heath clasped Red to her chest in a bone-grinding embrace, breathing in the familiar, slightly macabre scent of blood, sweat, and Wasteland dust. Her hugs tended to last a bit long for most people; fortunately, Red wasn’t most people and held on with equal ferocity. “Where to next?” she asked, chin perched atop Heath’s head.  
“Off to see those bigots at Tennypenny Tower,” said Heath. “I know they’ll be interested in a relationship with the Vault. Sure to be a lucrative business. It’ll at least be nice to see Daring. He’s a sweet old thing.”  
“Ooh, ‘“Daring” Dashwood’ was always my favorite on the radio, whenever we could actually get a radio signal and tune in. Can you get his autograph for me? Please, Heath? Is all that stuff about him true?”  
“I don’t know about _all_ of it, but sure, I’ll get you that autograph. In the meantime, let’s go see Knock Knock. She’s been waiting for you.”  
“Lead the way.”  
Knock Knock had yet to return to her room in the Great Chamber; she needed dry, warm air—or at least drier, warmer air than the caves could offer—while on the mend. Butch and Heath had lugged an old couch into the office building, given her a place to sit up when she wasn’t sleeping. Propped up on a mound of pillows, she was snuggled up with Knick Knack, Ginger, and Dogmeat. The tails of the two dogs swished but they remained where they were, coiled tight around Knock Knock. The little girl waved her copy of _The Wasteland Survival Guide_. “Heath, did you actually go out and get hurt on purpose in the name of scientific research?” she asked, finger tracing a particular passage.  
  
_There was much to be gleaned from Heath’s injuries, which were grave but far from fatal. Her extensive medical knowledge provided me—and, in turn, will provide you—with the means to treat and recover from all manner of trauma, location and physical state notwithstanding. A few broken bones, several infected lacerations, and a grade three vestibular concussion didn’t keep her incapacitated for long_ …  
  
“Of course she didn’t,” said Knick Knack.  
“Of course I didn’t,” said Heath. “Does that sound like me? I just happened to stumble in, injured and delirious, while Moira was working on that chapter. Now look, here’s someone to see you, Knock.”  
“Oh, Red, you came!”  
“I promised I would, didn’t I?”  
“You know I don’t trust anything written on paper!”  
“ _What_?”  
Heath left them to their reunion. Butch was outside, tapping a pack of smokes against his palm. He pulled out two, tucked them between his lips, and twitched a light over the ends. With a smile, she accepted the one he offered, oddly enthralled by the gesture. “So, let’s cut out tomorrow?” she said, taking a drag. Acrid smoke filled her mouth, her throat, her lungs, grey and furnace-hot. A cough suppressed made her eyes water.  
“You don’t seem like you wanna leave,” he said.  
“I mean, I don’t, but we do have to,” Heath said and leaned against the building. Sloe-eyes shut, lids descending with a leaden weight. “I’m not needed— _we’re_ not needed—here anymore. We have to go where we’re needed, or at the very least where we can make a difference, you know? We’re just sitting on our asses at this point. What _we_ want doesn’t matter.”  
“You sound like James. Guess you’re really doin’ your old man proud, huh?”  
A smile stretched taut the bow of her mouth, doting and rueful. “Butch, I…” she said, and in lieu of sniveling pivoted and pulled him down to face-level. “Thank you.”  
“You know I mean it.”  
“I suppose I do.”

Goodbyes, even temporary ones, were as difficult as they were inevitable.  
Heath gave each child of Little Lamplight a hug and her lips on both cheeks. Each dog she scratched behind the ears and kissed them in between. MacCready and Dogmeat were the last to say farewell. “You take a break from growing up while I’m away, alright, Mac?” she said. “And you, Dogmeat, you be a good boy and look after everyone. I’ll be back as soon as I’m able. You know I’d stay longer if I could. Oh, don’t cry, little muffin. I promise I’ll be back.”  
Butch was less tender but still saw fit to slip everyone a piece of bubblegum. He even gave MacCready’s arm a soft punch. “From third degree to cold shoulder, eh? I’ll take it, kid.”  
“Still doesn’t mean I like you. Far as I’m concerned, you’ll always be just like any other fuckin’ mungo out there.”  
“Atta boy. Wouldn’t have it any other way.”  
Heath left a part of herself behind when they left. She might have cried, were Butch not there to distract her. “I heard that there were dragons out here,” he said, threading her arm through the crook of his elbow. “You ever see one?”  
“My God. You’re serious, aren’t you?”  
“They’ve got deathclaws!”  
“Deathclaws are mutated chameleons. Dragons are creatures of myth. Big in Chinese mythology, actually. I don’t suppose you ever read _China: Five Thousand Years of History and Civilization_?”  
“Maybe. How much of it is about dragons?”  
“Not much at all.”  
“Oh. Then no.”  
“There are geckos out in the Mojave. Fire-breathing ones, apparently.” Heath scrunched up her nose. “Not sure how _that’s_ biologically possible—and pretty sure that's not how evolution works—but it’s definitely the closest to dragons we’ll ever get. Of course, New Vegas is also over twenty-five-hundred miles away. We won’t see one anytime soon.”  
For a moment, Butch looked crestfallen. “Anytime soon, eh, nosebleed?” he said, promptly lighting up. “Think we’ll ever go?”  
“It’s just semantics, candy ass,” she said. “We’ve got enough to do in the Capital Wasteland.”  
“And once we’re finished?”  
“Well, maybe we’ll take to the Mojave once you're able to face a deathclaw without nearly pissing yourself. Sound good?”  
“Can it.”  
She tugged him to her. “Can do,” she said and kissed him firmly.


End file.
